Despertar

grease spill

I read all three hundred seventy-two pages of Sally Hemings between midnight and five o'clock this morning. Every twenty pages or so, I'd feel my eyes starting to swim, I'd think maybe this time I was falling asleep, and I'd turn out the light. Then I'd get to thinking about Justin, and fifteen sleepless minutes later, I'd turn the light back on and resume reading. I've already read Sally Hemings and find it insufferable on every level, but it was preferable to the mental litany that keeps me up every night, about how fat I am and how I'm going to die alone without a job.

I used to figure myself for a night owl, but I'm liking the nighttime less and less these days. Crowding my brain with external stimuli is much harder at night. All the good TV shows go off and there's no one online to talk to. I've taken Ambien twice in my life, and it only worked the first time. I find myself wishing someone would just knock me out with a crowbar.